


The Roaring Seas And Many A Dark Range Of Mountains Lie Between Us

by fireafterall



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Other, The Iliad References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 14:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21209708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireafterall/pseuds/fireafterall
Summary: Aziraphale leaves Crowley books throughout the centuries.





	The Roaring Seas And Many A Dark Range Of Mountains Lie Between Us

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, first of all I want to say thank you for the comments and kudos on my last work, they were really encouraging and I greatly appreciated all of them! In fact, it was actually a comment by user tenner that inspired this piece so a huge thanks there, and I hope very much that you enjoy it.
> 
> Also in the process of writing this I had about three mental breakdowns and was sick twice, which is not the best writing environment and on top of that this hasn't been beta read. In the end, I wasn't entirely happy with how it turned out but I hope that you guys like it all the same and am already working on something else (more good omens of course) that I hope will work out better.
> 
> Have a lovely day/night all of you and, as always, comments on anything I did well or could improve are extremely appreciated :).
> 
> Title taken from Homer's The Iliad.
> 
> (The Iliad being a phenomenal book that I cannot recommend more highly.)
> 
> \-----

Aziraphale fell in love with stories perhaps even before he fell in love with the beings that told them.

He had chased human narrators all over the Earth, and in this day and age, there was nowhere quite like Greece to hear them. And he would know, having seen more of the world than any other living being. Well, any other being save for one. 

It didn’t hurt that Greek wine was superb, and that they had done some _truly_ great things with food, but, in the end, he stuck around for the storytellers. While many of their stories did center around some false gods they had recently come up with, Aziraphale didn’t hate even those stories quite as much as he thought he probably should. He would listen to any recitation of anything, but his favorite stories were from Homer. The bard’s oration was magnificent, and the tales he told, even more so. A few nights spread apart over the past few weeks, Aziraphale had sat down among strangers in overcrowded rooms and listened to the story of the battle of Troy. And tonight, he had been told, the story would end. While the angel was excited to know how the epic would conclude, he found that he would have been equally content to listen to Homer speak of Achilles and Patrocles, their comrades and enemies, until the end of the world.

As always, many people were gathered in the hall to hear the epic poem; mostly the rich and privileged and many not caring so much about the story itself as the honor of being invited. On the first night of The Iliad, as Homer called his great epic, many weeks ago, Aziraphale had had to use a minor miracle to get invited, but now, he was simply welcomed as a familiar face. Word of Homer’s renown had spread far and wide, even reaching as far as Egypt where the angel had called home only a few months before. He had left for a change of scenery and in his brief time of absence the country had been smote to near destruction by plagues of God. This was, as he kept telling himself, of course all a part of Her ineffable plan, but he did find he had a bit of difficulty thinking of it that way when he had spent so much time living amongst them. 

He hadn’t had the courage to return and see who among his friends had survived. Though perhaps it was for the best, his avoiding Egypt. Wherever he went lately, calamity had seemed to follow as if the angel were himself some sort of, well, hellish catalyst. 

It did seem he couldn’t do much of anything right.

Homer finished calling down blessings from his “gods”, then picked up where he had left them weeks before; the Greeks falling to the Trojans, and Achilles, as unmoved as ever to rejoin his brothers in arms.

_ “Thus did they fight about the ship of Protesilaus. Then Patroclus drew near to Achilles with tears welling from his eyes, as from some spring whose crystal stream falls over the ledges of a high precipice. When Achilles saw him thus weeping he was sorry for him…” _

Something in his chest warmed at hearing Patrocles’ name. Achilles’ beloved companion was Aziraphale’s favorite character and he was glad to hear more of him after so much time of the narrative focusing elsewhere. He settled in to hear the story continue on, with Patrocles trying, once again, to change the mind of Achilles; the man he loved. Or rather, he _ tried _to settle in. He couldn’t quite relax, there was something in the room that felt… off. Wrong. Though he loathed to tear any of his attention away from the storyteller, he moved his eyes about the room, searching for whatever was upsetting him. It took barely a moment for him to spot the demon Crawley, lurking, not a hundred feet from himself in this very hall.

The angel rose to his feet as nonchalantly as he was able, not wanting to distract anyone else, and made his way quietly to the back wall Crawley was sitting against. If the angel didn’t know better, he would have said the demon was enjoying listening. But that was impossible, if for no other reason than the joy Aziraphale himself took from it. There was simply no way an angel and a demon could have something so-- so _ intimate _ in common. No, the simple fact of the matter was; Crawley had come to ruin the performance in some way or other and Aziraphale would be damned if he let him.

He had to clear his throat to get his attention, and as the demon turned toward him, he put on a good show of reluctance; pretending to be so absorbed in the story that he hadn’t noticed Aziraphale’s heavenly presence approaching.

“Ah Aziraphale! Come to hear the great one himself have you? I’m surprised really, I thought one as holy as yourself would object to all his talk of ‘gods’.”

They hadn’t seen each other in over five hundred years and after less than thirty seconds the demon was already on his nerves. 

“Crawley isn’t it?” The angel wasn’t sure why he’d said that, he was perfectly confident in the demon’s name, “Well of course I object to their, their pantheon or what have you, I do however happen to enjoy a good story and well, Homer is the best I’ve seen from humans so far. Oh what am I even saying, this is irrelevant,” leave it to a demon to distract him like this, “the important bit is; whatever you are trying to do here, it won’t work. I am prepared to go to nearly any length to stop you from disrupting the performance or, or, or harming this man in any way.” 

Crawley turned to look at him and Aziraphale had to admit he looked genuinely hurt by the accusation.

“Hurt him? Now why would I ever, angel?”

“Hmph, _ why _? Because you are a demon, Crawley, it is simply what you do.” At this point Aziraphale grew aware he was missing the story, and, after debating with himself for a minute, he sat down beside the demon, though he was sure to stay a careful distance away, and turned back to the bard. Achilles was now dressing Patrocles in his own beautiful armor to go fight the Trojans and restore Achilles honor in the process. The way Homer spoke you could nearly see the love between the two men, the respect.

“Are-- are you sitting by me now?”

“Clearly.” Aziraphale huffed out, “_ Someone _has to keep you out of trouble and it, unfortunately, once again appears to fall to me.”

Crawley laughed at that, “Well I wouldn’t complain too much, angel. After all, without me you’d be out of a job.” The demon smirked and raised his voice an octave; his next words coming out with irritatingly exaggerated cadence, “Moping about in heaven, sans master poet recitations.” 

While Crawley was, he supposed, correct, and though Aziraphale hadn’t thought much about it until now, he _ was _actually quite grateful to be precisely where he was. It was all so entirely bothersome that he had to fight the instinct to simply miracle Crawley far away from the place. He wasn’t quite sure why he didn’t, and in centuries to come he would continue to wonder over it, but there was something in the demon’s face when he listened--

“If you’re going to sit here, um, by me, can you at least tell me what happened while we were talking, why is Patrocles dressing for war now?”

“What, you couldn’t hear it just because _ we _ were speaking at the same time, oh do be serious.”

Crawley turned to look at him and Aziraphale was again surprised by the truth he found on his face.

“Completely serious angel,” he said, no shame in this obvious deficiency. Perhaps it was a demon thing. The angel sighed and responded:

“Patrocles doesn’t wish for the Greeks to remember Achilles poorly for abandoning them to be slaughtered, but since even he can not change the man’s mind, he begs to instead wear Achilles’ armor, and, disguised as him, lead their people into battle, saving both the Greeks and his love’s reputation without Achilles having to go back on his word.” Crawley nodded in gratitude then turned back to the poet with the same rapt attention. 

After a moment though, during a brief interlude in which Homer moved away from the action to describe the ships burning, Crawley looked over at him to ask:

“His love, did you say?”

“What Achilles and Patrocles? Well yes, I mean, they seem in love, uh, to me I suppose…”

A small smile danced across the demon’s mouth as he turned back towards the story.

“Crawley what does it matter I just--”

But the demon kept his eyes on Homer and Aziraphale realized there wouldn’t be any diverting his attention until the story was over. The angel released the air from his lungs and resigned himself to the same thing; hoping Crawley’s presence wouldn’t ruin the story he loved so dearly.

The two of them sat there, together, Aziraphale supposed, listening to Homer speak Achilles’ prayer for Patrocles.

_ “Grant, all-seeing Zeus, that victory may go with him; put your courage into his heart that Hector may learn whether my squire is man enough to fight alone, or whether his might is only then so indomitable when I myself enter the turmoil of war. Afterwards when he has chased the fight and the cry of battle from the ships, grant that he may return unharmed, with his armor and his comrades, fighters in close combat." Thus did he pray, and all-counselling Zeus heard his prayer. Part of it he did indeed vouchsafe him-- but not the whole. He granted that Patrocles should thrust back war and battle from the ships, but refused to let him come safely out of the fight.” _

When Homer, through Zeus, proclaimed that Patrocles would soon die, Aziraphale felt as if it knocked the breath out of him. If he hadn’t known it to be impossible, he would have thought he heard Crawley exhale in the same pain.

After that he sort of lost himself. Patrocles’ death was devastating, and the Greeks’ attempts to retrieve his body, even more so. At some point during Achilles’ mourning, Aziraphale realized he had moved closer to the demon. Their arms were so near, brushing with each breath and yet...

And yet the angel did not move away.

He could _ feel _ their nearness but it did not disturb him as it should. As he _ knew _ it should. This story; it consumed him so completely, he had never felt anything like it. And sharing it with the demon, with Crawley, felt right somehow. Out of all these people, all these incredible human beings, only the two of them could really _ see _ how extraordinary the narrative was. Only they understood the best and worst of humanity. And this beautiful account was full of people who were somehow both.

The story went long into the night, detailing not just the war, but the grief too. The grief of all of them, the grief of those who would triumph and the grief of those who would fall. It was beautiful. And devastating. And so, so human. Before this Aziraphale had loved humanity, as he was, of course, called to do, but, oh, hearing this. He _ loved _ them. In a way he knew he hadn’t before, and in a way he thought perhaps he was not supposed to. There was so much beauty in them. So much beauty and so much pain.

When the story reached its climax, (a king on his knees, begging for the body of his son from the man who killed him. The two of them weeping together. And the man giving the body to the king, in memory of a friend) Crawley closed the last distance between them; pressing their arms together, gently. A faint pressure was all it was, but in the name of the Lord for a moment, Aziraphale forgot he was an angel. 

In that moment, with a story of grief in his ears, the feeling of solidarity at his side, he couldn’t have been anything but human.

It ended abruptly; the epic and that strange feeling both. The angel and the demon rose together to clap with all the others in the hall as a wave of sickness came over Aziraphale. He had just spent who knew how many hours in the company of a demon, the two of them participating in something together. Even worse, enjoying something together. The massive room suddenly felt too small and, without looking back, he scrambled out of the hall and into the night, the first light of the morning barely beginning to peak over the hills. Whatever had happened, not that anything _ had _ happened… oh why would he even _ think _ that, it was all such a terrible mess.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and began to quickly stroll away, resolving more firmly with each passing structure not to think on this any further. He would forget the story, he would forget that feeling in the pit of his stomach and in the name of all that was holy he would forget about the demon. In fact, he pledged himself devoted to avoiding Crawley from now on. For all eternity, if possible. This whole incident would be best forgotten, yes, he simply had to get out of Greece.

Strolling quickly away as he was, he did not, of course, look back, but had he done so... 

He would have seen a demon, silhouetted by the sun as it began to rise, his eyes following the angel for as long he could see him.

\-----

Aziraphale did manage to avoid Crawley, for a while, at least. But not for an eternity. The only two immortals on the planet, one had to run into the other eventually. 

And it was about twelve hundred years later they saw each other again; where else but at the crucifixion of the Son of God. 

The sun was blaring down on the three crosses in front of them, blood on the men’s faces, their hands, their feet.

When the demon had approached him, it had taken Aziraphale a moment realize what was different, but Crawley appeared to be a woman these days. And was also now called Crowley.

He wasn’t sure she was planning to stay a woman, even in Aziraphale’s limited time knowing her, he could see she was the type of being who changed as the wind blew, but he felt, in his bones, somehow, that the name was here to stay.

Crowley.

He thought he rather liked it.

While Aziraphale’s plan to evade the demon may have, in a sense, failed, his intention to forget had been a resounding success. He didn’t dwell on such things anymore, or avoided it as much as he could, anyway. Though if he were honest with himself, and surely an angel should be, there were times late at night when thoughts crept in; memories. The Iliad itself often appeared there in his subconscious, which wouldn’t have been too terribly bad on its own, but accompanying it was always two things: the feeling of Crawley, no, Crowley now, pressed up against his arm, and the look on the demon’s face as he listened. He tried to forget but the most he could succeed in seemed to be pushing it to the back of his mind for a while.

However, on this occasion, seeing the demon was as painless as he’d hoped. They spoke nothing of that night in Greece and instead reminisced about the boy from Galilee who had to die for God’s ineffable plan. 

As the sky went dark and he cried out his last, Aziraphale felt that well open up inside of him again. That human feeling hole. The man had been so kind. The angel supposed if The Almighty said it must be done then it must, but it still generated something like hurt in him.

As Crowley watched the Son take his final breath, Aziraphale could have sworn there was pity in her eyes.

\-----

Their paths crossed, or often collided, more frequently after this. And while Aziraphale could never _ like _a demon of course, there was at least a familiarity to their meetings. The only other thing on Earth that didn’t die.

The last time he had seen Crowley, the demon had proposed some sort of _ arrangement _ between them and, while he had of course refused, the angel had to admit the idea lingered in his mind long after. 

And it was still rattling about in there when, about two hundred years later, Aziraphale entered his first ever bookshop. There may not have been very many books available but it was a complete fantasy all the same. Paradise, even. And there, lying in the corner of the shop…

Aziraphale caught his breath, rushing towards the back of the room, unable to believe his own eyes. The Iliad. After all these centuries, a manuscript of the epic right in front of him. Oh, to bear its weight again.

The angel flipped through the Greek text, incredibly thankful he could still understand the language after so many years of disuse. Names on the pages caught his eye; Achilles and Patrocles, with him again after all this time. Aziraphale nearly wept.

Clutching the precious volume to his chest he purchased it immediately, nearly running home to read it. The small cottage he was currently calling home was damp; was always damp. But he felt nothing other than the words as he read the story that had stuck deep inside him for so long. Being an ethereal being did have its perks; once he laid down upon bed he absolutely refused to move or get up at all until he finished it, about thirteen hours later. He was sad when it ended, though it was a less complete sadness this time as he knew he could now return to them whenever he wanted. It felt like owning a great treasure, like the human feeling of wealth he supposed.

Or possibly more like having friends.

Lying on the mattress, beloved book clutched to his chest, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps Crowley, too, would like to read it again after all this time.

Though he tried to ignore the idea, it, like most thoughts he tried to ignore, stuck with him. Throughout the next few days, no matter where he went or what he did, it seemed he couldn’t let it go. Logically, the angel knew it was within his creed, or one could even say it was his obligation, to love his enemy, and therefore it would be, in fact, encouraged by heaven for him to do so. At least _ logically _. Somehow, he didn’t feel it would go down that way. 

Somehow, it felt different than simply loving an enemy.

After many more days spent debating the morals of it all, he returned to the store to buy the second copy; nervous as, well, all hell.

“Sir, didn’t you buy that same book last week?”

The shop owner was staring at him with slight suspicion from behind the counter. Aziraphale couldn’t see why it would matter to him, business was business after all, but he was still quite nervous as he cultivated his response,

“Well, um, yes, that _ was _ me but, you see, my copy dropped in the water, or rather, that is to say, _ I _ dropped it in the water and I would like a new one, yes.”

“Well alright then,” the man apathetically drawled, “will you be wanting to purchase the other Homer book while you’re here?”

“There’s a-- a what?” Aziraphale rushed to where the man was indicating, he had been so _ near _ it last visit, oh it all seemed so impossible!

Apparently, avoiding Greece for a few centuries had devastatingly led to missing out on another epic. He turned back towards the counter, his face breaking into an uncontrollable smile.

“You know, on second thought I’ll take two.”

“Two what?”

“I shall still be purchasing this, uh, replacement copy of The Iliad, but then I will also be, hm, getting two copies of, of,” Aziraphale realized in all the excitement he hadn’t actually read the title, “of The Odyssey, you know, in case I drop another one in water or, uh, something.”

He wasn’t sure why he was bothering to lie to a man who would never know enough about him to judge him over it. Judge him over gifting a story to a_ demon. _ Aziraphale felt the smile drop from his face as he shuddered involuntarily. Oh, what would Heaven say! He knew Crowley believed their respective head offices had stopped bothering to check in on them long ago, and most of the time Aziraphale believed him. But even thinking about it...

As he left the shop, he decided he would simply have to leave it anonymously. Yes, that way would surely be best. The next time he ran into Crowley he would just leave the books near him, or else follow him until he found where he lived and leave them there. Either way, Aziraphale was sure the demon would never know. Though a small, strange part of his heart twinged unpleasantly at the thought.

Back at home, sitting atop his bed again, readying himself to open The Odyssey, he realized yet another problem. If he gave Crowley a copy of The Iliad, then surely the demon would realize it was from him. Of course, he could have, perhaps, forgotten after all this time but Aziraphale couldn’t take the risk. _ Wouldn’t _take the risk. Simply a copy of the books sequel on the other hand, well, he supposed, that could have come from anyone. Yes, that was what he would do.

At peace at last with his course of action, the angel settled down to the comfort of The Odyssey, and read.

It was only another nine months before he saw Crowley again; they did seem to run into each other much more these days. However, the demon had been too busy talking to a priest, sowing debauchery surely, to notice the angel. But when he left for home, Aziraphale followed.

They wound through narrow streets until Crowley reached a small, home-like structure in the woods. He disappeared through the door, too quickly for Aziraphale to see anything inside, though he strangely wished he could have caught a glimpse of how the demon lived. The angel thought to wait until he left again and to leave the book inside, but in the end he judged it too great a risk of being seen. He left the book in front of the door, using a minor miracle to protect it from the elements, and turned to head for home. Although he was unsure why, he found he very much hoped Crowley would step out his door and find it soon.

As he was walking away, a small baffling smile on his lips, Aziraphale realized that perhaps he would agree to an arrangement with the demon. Just if they happened to run into each other again of course.

The smile remained on his face the whole walk home.

\-----

Throughout the centuries, despite the arrangement that Aziraphale had, in the end, agreed to, the angel and demon mostly stayed out of each other’s way when not passing jobs along.

Or at least they _ said _they did. Perhaps that had even been their mutual intention but, to face facts, the demon and the angel saw quite a lot of each other these days.

Aziraphale was never quite sure when it started, perhaps Paris, 1793, but they began to, sometimes, eat together. To share a meal, and share their time. To draw out the increasingly more frequent occasions in which their paths crossed before they inevitably parted ways again. Happiness at seeing a familiar face was all it was, not that the angel was ever happy to see Crowley, of course, as he could never actually enjoy a demon’s company. Aziraphale found he had been repeating this to himself quite a lot recently. 

But why did he keep leaving the books?

He couldn’t seem to stop, the next few centuries had yielded no great works of literature, but in the eleventh century it was Beowulf, then the Shahnameh, though truly Aziraphale never knew if Crowley could read Persian. Books became more popular; more prevalent, and the angel truly struggled to not leave Crowley with a copy of every book he ever read. A collection of Japanese songs he read in 1163 were too good not to pass on, and while he tried to wait more than a century before leaving another, twenty years later The Nibelungenlied was simply too phenomenal to keep to himself.

It had been over a thousand years since he began with The Odyssey. It was safe to say that Aziraphale had left _ many _ books anonymously with Crowley. In times when they were, well, closer, he would simply leave them on end tables as he was leaving wherever the demon was currently living. Lately, a flat in London. When they weren’t seeing as much of each other, it was just as easy to slip a book into a bag, or leave it anywhere else Crowley would be guaranteed to find it. He tried to not leave too many, to not make it too obvious, though sometimes he thought that Crowley _ must _know. Aziraphale was notorious for loving books after all, and, to the angel’s knowledge at least, the demon didn’t tend to form any sort of lasting bonds with humans. Or at least not the sort that resulted in gift giving.

After 1941, the London bombing, it grew especially hard to not just _ tell _ him. That a demon would think to save his books... Well, it had been incredibly kind. 

And besides all that, Aziraphale had been dying to know if he had liked The Odyssey, or even read it at all.

But to tell him and risk…

Well risk what exactly Aziraphale wasn’t sure but it felt wrong to even think about it. The angel sighed and headed upstairs.

He had his own bookshop now, though it often times served more as a private collection than a shop as he hated to sell anything. He could barely go a day now without finding a book he thought Crowley would like. Casino Royale was the novel he had most recently caved to, the story of a spy named James Bond that was utterly ridiculous and he knew Crowley would love. The demon had been visiting his bookshop a fair amount lately, and it had been easy to leave it in the back seat of the Bentley; slipping it through a cracked window under the guise of escorting Crowley to his car.

Reaching his bedside, he opened the drawer in the nightstand beside it and picked up the book lying there. He stared at the copy of The Iliad that he had meant to give to Crowley all those years ago, and still hoped to give him one day. It carried the centuries without much grace, though he had tried to be careful, the cover was wrinkled and even torn in places, with many stains lining the edges of the pages. He sighed and placed the tattered Iliad back down, closing the drawer. The longer he knew Crowley the more he yearned to give him the precious volume. Perhaps even in person, a true gift this time.

He knew that it would change things but sometimes he thought that perhaps he wanted the change.

\-----

The bookshop was gone.

And then, it was back.

Aziraphale had heard of the bookshop’s death and resurrection solely through Crowley and, after everything that had happened, it was strange to look around and see nothing had changed. Well nearly nothing, anyway. As he walked through the shelves he loved so dearly, taking in every beloved title, he had to laugh as he discovered the additions Adam had made to his collection. One would have thought the boy had had enough of wild adventures, but his tastes did seem to lean that way. It was hard to find a single one of Adam’s “suggestions” that didn’t feature pirates. But that wasn’t a bad thing, and Aziraphale certainly had nothing to complain about. The books were all there, saved from the fire, and even an angel could admit it was an absolute miracle. 

Yes, all his books were there. 

Including a gift long overdue.

Yesterday, Saturday, the day the world hadn’t ended, Aziraphale had spent the night on Crowley’s couch, thinking if he listened hard enough, perhaps he could hear the demon breathing. And as he was lying there in the dark, trying to sleep and failing miserably, the angel had realized that after everything, literally everything, they had been through together, it was completely ridiculous to worry over giving the demon a gift. In fact Aziraphale felt quite ashamed over the whole thing.

He saw now that Crowley would never have hesitated to give him anything. Never _ did _ hesitate to give him anything and had been nothing but kind to him since back in the very beginning. Even when the other angels weren’t. One day into his life on Earth and he had seemed to have found a being who liked him more than any angel ever had. A demon who cared. And looking back, perhaps that was why he hadn’t believed him at first. Had thought it all some big temptation. After all, it had only been through Crowley’s attention, Crowley’s care, that he had even learned there was anything to like about himself. And in the midst of all the love he gave, the demon hated himself. Aziraphale had always known it, really, and hadn’t done nearly as much as he could have to relieve the contempt. All this time, he had been trying to show Crowely he cared for him while simultaneously not allowing himself to acknowledge thinking of Crowley even as a friend. Not letting the right hand see what the left was doing, as it were. In doing some long overdue soul searching, or whatever angel’s had in lieu of souls, he had realized that while Crowley may have always been more than kind to Aziraphale, the angel hadn’t been very good to him at all.

And it mattered. It mattered so, so much because _ Crowley _ mattered. He mattered more than anything. 

And Aziraphale had realized then, lying there, that he loved him.

He loved him so much he knew now that before, he hadn’t understood what love was like at all. Aziraphale loved Crowley so much it was agony. 

In the back of his mind he surely had known, he _ must _ have, but he had just been so damn afraid. How foolish it seemed now, and how terrible. To think of all the time they could have had together. Now though, with what heaven and hell would surely do to them, tomorrow or a year or a thousand years from now, it wouldn’t matter. And knowing they would be torn apart, Aziraphale would never be able to stop being afraid. Afraid for himself but afraid for Crowley too. Oh on God Herself, yes, he was afraid for Crowley. And if the demon knew, when the inevitable came, wouldn’t that just make it infinitely worse? Worse to know an angel loved him? Perhaps though, if he were in Crowley’s place he would want to know. As he now wanted to know if the demon, in any way, felt the same--

If he were in Crowley’s place…

Aziraphale had rushed to the demon’s room, reluctant to wake Crowley as he was, for heaven’s sake the demon was obviously exhausted, but it had to be done. Because Aziraphale had worked out how they were going to survive this.

He sighed, running his fingers over the book spines, had it really all only been yesterday? His feet took him upstairs as he knew they would, to the drawer beside his bed where the book had resided for so long now. He opened the drawer and held it for the last time…

It wasn’t as much a decision made as simply the only logical end to the road. His whole eternal existence had led him here; outside Crowley’s door, a literal book and a metaphorical heart in his hands.

The door opened.

“Aziraphale, hi, did you, uh, forget something or, or what are you doing here?” The demon looked as if he had just woken up, and who could blame him for napping, the last few days had after all been a lot to handle. “Not that, uh, not that I’m not happy to see you of course but ngk--”

Aziraphale thrust the book at him before he could think about it too much. On the way over he had thought of the many things he would say in this moment. 

It was me who brought you all those books through the years, it was me.

I should have been better for you.

I love you, Crowley and I think I have for a long time.

But now that he was here he did nothing but offer the book to him. Hoping the demon could see he was really offering up himself. Crowley eyes moved down to the cover then up to him and the angel knew with a final certainty that he _ remembered _.

“Angel, I--” he gently took the story from his hands, “what is this?”

“I meant to give it to you so long ago Crowley, almost two thousand years. And, and I’m just,” the demon was staring into his eyes now, his jaw slack and the expression on his face unreadable, “And I’m just so sorry!”

He hadn’t known he was about to cry until he started; big ugly sobs, water streaming from his eyes and nose. He brought his hands up to cover his face, from embarrassment, oh God he couldn’t even work out why he was crying. Then, there were gentle hands on his arms, guiding him through the doorway. There was a gentle voice, softer than Aziraphale had ever heard it, telling him it would be all right. 

Crowley let him sob, the two of them standing on the threshold of the demon’s apartment, the angel still covering his face with his hands. But Crowley’s hands were wrapped around him now, holding the angel to him as he cried.

After a minute or an hour or a lifetime, Aziraphale calmed enough that he could look up; straight into Crowley’s eyes, so, so close to his own. Near enough that their mouths could touch with only the slightest of movements.

The demon seemed to realize their position in the same moment, backing away slightly, a murmur of apology rumbling out the back of his throat.

“Ngk, I uh--” Crowley stammered as Aziraphale tried to remain calm with the demon’s hands no longer holding him. They were quiet for a minute, until Crowley burst out with:

“The book! Yes thank you, angel, for the book. I, I, well anyway, I remember when we first, uh, in Greece and, ngk, thank-- are, are you okay?”

He seemed too flustered by the whole ordeal to form coherent sentences, and honestly could Aziraphale blame him? 

He was attempting to stop crying now, and it was working, albeit gradually.

“Angel please, what-- tell me what to do to help you.”

Aziraphale reached out and took one of Crowley’s hands in his, desperately hoping he wouldn’t pull away.

He didn’t.

After another moment, he wiped his face one last time with his free hand and tried to force a smile as he looked up at Crowley.

“I really do apologize for just bursting in like this, it’s just,” he took in another steadying breath, “It’s just that I am so sorry my dear, and I don’t know what I can do.”

“Sorry for what, Aziraphale, you’re not making any sense.” Crowley was eyeing him with something like apprehension on his face now though he still didn’t let their hands drop.

He breathed in deeply again, feeling strangely calm now. He really couldn’t have started worse than that, now all there was to do was speak, and tell him everything he should have said so long ago.

“Crowley, I am sorry I always denied our friendship and that I never even thanked you for being so kind to me. I knew I should have, and please believe me that I wanted to, but I was so scared of what heaven would think that I-- I degraded our relationship, over and over again and I’m so sorry over it. But I need you to know, Crowley, that it never had anything to do with you”. Aziraphale felt he was nearly pleading now; begging the demon for understanding.

“It never had anything to do with, with,” here words failed him for a moment, and he found he couldn’t look at the demon anymore, “with how I feel about you Crowley, and I am just so, so sorry.”

“Where is this coming from angel, you, you don’t have to apologize, really--”

“No I _ do _ have to apologize you were never anything but kind to me and I was never kind back at all and I--”

The demon gave a little laugh, a short, broken and sad laugh that stopped Aziraphale’s words; stopped his thoughts.

“Aziraphale, I wasn’t nice to you because I thought you’d return the sentiment, I mean I knew an angel could never care about me the way, uh, well.”

Aziraphale looked up into his eyes at last.

“Well the way I cared about him. Uh, care about you I mean.”

The demon ducked his head now, or tried to before Aziraphale stepped forward to kiss him firmly on the mouth.

He didn’t really know what he was doing but he hoped it was alright. After a moment he pulled back, looking into Crowley’s eyes.

“Dear, I have been in love with you for so long now, I don’t even know when it started.”

“In love with a demon, angel, are you sure?”

Aziraphale answered by kissing him again.

There would be time to talk of books. Of The Iliad and The Odyssey, the years of each others lives they had missed, the joys and sorrows. There would be infinite time for every missed opportunity, every conversation. But for now, they held each other. They held each other and they kissed until the doubt left Crowley’s eyes and a smile graced his mouth. Until Aziraphale felt he had made up for all of it.

_ “These nights are endless, and a man can sleep through them, or he can enjoy listening to stories, and you have no need to go to bed before it is time.” -Homer, The Odyssey _


End file.
